Mickey and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day
by DarkMadameFaye
Summary: A continuation of You Shouldn't Play with Knives, in which Mickey continues his hapless ways.


**A story request from my sister.**

* * *

Mickey was not having a good day. First some maniac zombie smashed his head into a car door and kidnapped him. Then the same psycho strung him up and scared the crap out of him with a blowtorch. Then, after terrorizing Mickey half the death, the guy randomly left after some lady burst in yelling about someone killing someone. Which in this house _didn't surprise Mickey!_

So Mickey was hanging alone in a dark room lit just well enough to see the various implements of torture Frank Castle had left strewn about. He twisted all around, trying to see a way out or at least something that could help, but just ended up with a sore back. And then the headache started. It was dull at first, and Mickey assumed that just maybe it was caused by stress, but it grew until it passed noticeable and became unbearable. After maybe ten minutes, Mickey cracked.

"Mr. Castle?" he yelled. "I'll tell you about Howard Saint. Just let me down. Mother _fucker_ I have a headache!"

Nothing happened. _Did whoever was killing that guy kill him?_ Definitely not. The devil himself could show up and Frank would just _freaking blowtorch his ass!_ Maybe the fight was going down, but there was no noise, and Mickey couldn't imagine someone fighting Castle that long.

A muscular man wearing a wife-beater stumbled in through the door.

"Holy shit, how many guys does Castle have in here?" Mickey said. Obviously Castle had already gotten to this guy. He had a nasty black eye and he was leaning against the door frame. "Come on, cut me down and let's get out of here!"

The man brought his knee up sharply, smashing it into Mickey's face. He squawked as he swung back on the chain, half dazed and half confused.

"Ahhhhhhhh," he gasped. "What was that?"

"Shut up," the man said. He punched Mickey in the stomach, leaving him heaving and spinning around. _What the hell is wrong with this guy?_ Mickey wondered. _And why does this always happen to_ me?

"Whatever I did, I'm sorry…" Mickey started. The man started rummaging around on one of the tables, grumbling a faint response.

"You… having a rough day?" Mickey asked.

"Look, honestly I just want to beat someone up," the man said.

"I hear Mr. Castle likes fighting," Mickey suggested. The man whirled around suddenly, grabbed Mickey's head, and smashed it into the edge of the table.

 _Never mind,_ Mickey thought faintly as he struggled to focus. Through the blur of motion and head injury, he saw the man pick up a steak knife.

"You hungry?" he asked, forcing a laugh. "How about you let me down and I'll take you out anywhere you want?"

The man set the knife down and picked up a metal container with a spigot on one end. Pounding adrenaline shot through Mickey.

"That doesn't work. It's broken. Castle was really m-"

The man flicked the switch, and a jet of flame shot from the blowtorch.

"Oh no."

The man examined the flame, turning the blowtorch at different angles. He pivoted and shoved it towards Mickey's face, pulling back at the last second, before burning him but after Mickey was mid-scream.

"You like that?" the man asked, smirking.

"No! No no no no no!" Mickey yelled. He arced back like a cat, trying to put distance between himself and the flame. The man passed it side to side in front of his face, savoring it. He shot it forward, and Mickey cocked his head fast enough to have his hair catch fire and not his face.

"Put it out put it out put it out!" Mickey pleaded frantically. He felt the heat grow as a tuft of hair burned all the way to the bottom, and then the pain as it seared his scalp. For a heart-stopping minute he thought it would spread all across his head, but instead it just fizzled out after an instant of pain, leaving a charred, smoking spot.

The man saw to it that the relief was short-lived by grabbing the rest of Mickey's hair and pulling him up until he was bent almost double, then letting him drop back into the table. As he lay half-stunned, Mickey wondered if blood was flammable. If not, at least the rest of his hair was safe.

Mickey became aware of a hissing noise from the chain above his head. He looked up and saw the man holding the blowtorch in front of his feet, slowly moving it downwards.

"Oh god," Mickey whimpered. Limp with terror, he felt warmth preceding the torch and imagined his last moments of manhood be spent with his own piss going up his nose.

"No… no... " Mickey whimpered. "Don't do me like this. From one man to another... Just let me die a man."

The flame caught a bit of Mickey's pants just above the knee, licking a charred hole in the denim. Even in his terror, he still noticed the pain.

"I'll tell you where he hides the money. I'll get you hookers and blow. Anything you want. You want a nice car?" The words came out faster as he started to shotgun. "I'll get you his wife. She's real hot. His side piece, too. Please, I'll let you have my _mother-"_

The door squeaked, and the man looked over. Mickey hadn't noticed, but he followed the man's gaze to see the most welcome sight of his life: Frank Castle.

"You again," Castle said, seeming inconvenienced more than anything else. The man ran at him, blowtorch flaming. Frank smacked it from his hand, grabbed him by the waistband and the back of his shirt, and assisted his motion out through a closed window. He watched him fall, then turned back to see Mickey staring at him.

"Mr. Castle, it would be my honor and privilege to tell you everything I know about Howard Saint."


End file.
